4H
by Vaguely Downwards
Summary: It's a job. It's a club. It's a way of life. Well, nearly. A gettogether of apocalyptic anthropomorphic personifications from This World and Discworld. Good OmensDisc crossover, eventual Thief of Time spoilers, mild BlackWhite slash.
1. First: Tiff

**Author's Note:** An incredibly pointless fic, written while waiting for/on a plane. Much longer than originally planned, so chopped up into two bits. _Good Omens_/Discworld crossover, with unimportant _GO_ spoilers and eventually a reasonably important _Thief of Time_ spoiler. If you don't know who Susan is, you will probably be quite, quite lost. Thanks for reading; I apologize in advance for any loss of brain matter that may result from reading this.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything of Discworld or This World That's Probably Ours But Only Way Better. If I did, I would be happy as a clam, but since I don't, I'm off to paint my fingernails black. Ta!

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**4H**

It's a job. It's a club. It's a way of life.

(Well, nearly.)

--

"I don't see why you need _me_ to come," Susan said peevishly.

I NEED SOMEONE TO WATCH BINKY.

"Excuse me? You need me to be a _horsesitter_?"

YES.

"Why can't he watch himself? He usually does."

IT'S THOSE WHEELIE THINGS, MOTORED CYCLES. THEY MAKE HIM NERVOUS. I SUPPOSE HE WORRIES I WILL WANT TO UPGRADE HIM AT SOME POINT.

"So he's nervous. He's a horse. So what?"

YES. HE IS A HORSE.

"I did just say that. I heard myself say it."

AND WHEN HORSES GET NERVOUS…

"They… What? Oh. He does that?"

I SUPPOSE YOUR FATHER NEVER TOLD YOU THAT STORY. WILL YOU HELP ME?

"What's the magic word?" Susan snapped.

Death stared at her.

"Oh, all _right_," Susan grumbled. "But don't expect me to hold your scythe or anything. I'm not a bloody squire!"

NO. I WILL NEED IT, IN ANY CASE.

"Someone offing it, then?" She brightened despite herself.

NO. BUT I WILL NEED IT, NEVERTHELESS.

**---------**

Susan, her eyes tearing in the wind, watched the ground keenly as they came in for a landing. The place looked the way the majority of teenagers perceive their hometown: dull, brown, flat, empty. Boredom personified. Flora was represented by dead grass. Fauna was probably represented by worms.

There was one building in view, with one door. It was boxy, off-white, and windowless, reminiscent of a shrunken factory. There was no driveway up to the building. There was no road anywhere in sight.

Nevertheless, there was a figure in front of the building, standing next to several two-wheeled vehicles.

"Grandfather?" Susan asked, as Death steered Binky downward.

YES, he said. He sounded distracted.

"Where are we, exactly?"

NOWHERE.

"Really?"

THE MIDDLE OF IT, IN FACT.

"Ah."

Binky's hooves brushed the tips of the grass, which crumpled and fell the few centimeters to the earth. Then Binky touched down.

Death dismounted, turned awkwardly, and bowed his head slightly to the woman slouching by the door. GOOD DAY, MISS, he said nervously.

The woman rolled her eyes and stubbed out her cigarette on the seat of a motorcycle. "And good day to you, laddie buck," she said sweetly, acidly.

WAR, I MEANT. WHAT DID I SAY? I MEANT WAR. WAR.

"Mm. Well, hallo," said the woman, sounding bored. "The rest are in there. Dunno where your boys are."

CLOSE. THEY WILL ARRIVE SHORTLY.

The woman raised an eyebrow. All she said was, "That's good." After a moment of silence, she tipped her chin up at Susan, still on Binky, and said, "Who's that? Your sidekick?" She grinned.

There was a _sproinggg_ sort of noise as Susan's hair escaped its bun and stood up from her head, curling and uncurling in an agitated way.

Death sighed. NO. MY GRANDDAUGHTER, he said.

The woman raised her other eyebrow.

Ignoring Death's tardily-proffered hand, Susan hopped nimbly down from the horse and snatched up Binky's reins. She glared at the other woman, clearly expressing her sincere desire to chop the bitch up into a thousand pieces.

Then she felt something crawling over her feet. She looked down.

The fauna, it turned out, were also represented by ants. Thousands of them, storming through the jungles of dead grass and tiny roots. And they were fighting each other. Each ant fighting each other ant. No sides. Pure carnage.

Susan watched the sea of insects, contemplating the flotsam and jetsam of crowd-surfing thoraxes and antennae with a very thoughtful expression on her face. Then she looked up at War, still glaring, and said brightly, "Would you excuse us a moment, please?" She gripped Death's arm and dragged him around the side of the building.

IF I HAD NERVES, THAT WOULD HAVE HURT, Death said reproachfully.

Ignoring this, Susan snapped, "Who in any and all of the various hells _is_ that woman?"

NO ONE.

"What?"

NO ONE IN ANY HELL, said Death. SHE DOES NOT WORK FOR ONE OF THE BIG FIRMS. SHE IS WAR.

"She is _not _War! Don't tell me she's War, I've met War, he's—"

WAR. YES. HE IS. AND SO IS SHE.

Susan glared at him, figuring it was better than her other main option. _(Goggling, which is undignified, according to most authorities.)_

Death sighed. SOMETIMES, SUSAN, he said, YOU CAN BE REMARKABLY BLOCKHEADED. SHE IS FROM… SOMEWHERE ELSE. ANOTHER WORLD. SHE IS HOW WAR IS PERSONIFIED SOMEWHERE ELSE.

"And why is she _here_, please?" Susan growled.

I INVITED HER. He raised his voice over Susan's protests and continued, AND A FEW OTHERS AS WELL. I THOUGHT IT MIGHT BE BENEFICIAL TO… COMPARE NOTES, AS IT WERE.

Susan stared. Then she laughed. "You've started a _club_ for Horsemen? That's—"

APOCALYPTIC ANTHROPOMORHPIC PERSONIFICATIONS, Death corrected. AFTER ALL, THEY RIDE MOTORCYCLYES. AND WAR OBJECTED TO THE 'MEN' PART. THE OTHER WAR, I MEAN.

"This is really stupid," said Susan. "You do realize that this is stupid, don't you?"

THANK YOU FOR YOUR OBSERVATIONS, Death said tartly. HERE COME THE REST, he added, lifting his skull to the sky.

Three horses were galloping down towards the ground, shaking off residual cloud matter and the leavings of several surprised birds. One was red and robust; another was gray and sagging, with patches of gangrenous green; the color of the third generally went unremarked upon, as its every bone was visible and crying out for notice.

Death said, YOU ARE HERE.

War said, "Yes."

There was a pause. Then:

WHERE IS—

"Late," sniffed Famine. "_Again_."

"_He said he'd catch us up later_," volunteered Pestilence.

"Wants to make a bloody fashionable bloody entrance," grumbled Famine. "Always has. Unnecessary drama. Do you remember—"

YES, I'M SURE I DO, THANK YOU, said Death hurriedly. HE WILL BE ALONG SHORTLY, I'M SURE. NOW LET US GO IN, PLEASE. THE OTHERS ARE WAITING. SUSAN, PLEASE WATCH BINKY. MAKE SURE HE DOESN'T CHEW ON HIMSELF.

"Yes, Grandfather," Susan said tiredly.

"Helping out your granddad, eh?" boomed War. "Good girl. Say, could you keep an eye on the old mule for me, too, would you mind? There's no hitching post, you see, and—"

Susan suddenly found herself holding four bridles as the Horsemen swept past her, around the corner, and into the building.

She glowered at the four receding backs until she felt eight horsey eyes on her.

She whirled around. "Oh, what do _you_ lot want!"


	2. Second: Row

**Author's Note: **Continuation of IPF (Incredibly Pointless Fic). This instalment is not quite what I planned, but that's why we write, isn't it, to be abducted by the fic. Tremendous thanks to Igorina and others who unwittingly introduced me to the slightly odd, abnormally common, strangely sensible pairing of Famine/Pollution. It made tremendous sense to me. That's most likely because I am a loon. This is not news.

**Disclaimer: **I am currently applying for adoption permits for every single character in this story. However, they currently still belong to the dynamic duo of SuperPratchettMan and ReallyAwesomeNeil. I shall have to think of an archnemesis name.

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**4H**

It's a job. It's a club. It's a way of life.

(Well, nearly.)

------

In the building, there was one room, one table, and nine chairs. There were hors d'eourves. There were little sandwiches.

There was also an awkward silence.

Eventually, War said, "Well?"

"Well what?" said War.

"Who are you?" War retorted.

"War," said War.

"Now you just hold on—"

ER…

They all looked at Death.

ER… HOW IS EVERYONE? he tried, desperately.

Silence.

ER… APPARENTLY THE NAME ISSUE IS CAUSING SOME CONFUSION… DOES ANYONE HAVE AN ALTERNATE NAME THAT MIGHT BE USED, IN THE INTERESTS OF COMMUNICATION?

Silence. Then:

"No," said War, Famine, and Pestilence, in cold unison.

Death looked at the other four.

"I'm fine with Red," said the woman who was War, with a shrug.

"Black," said the man who was Famine.

"White," said the man who was Pollution.

"Or Chalky," added Black.

Pollution regarded him coldly. "I think I'll stick with Pollution, actually, thank you," he said smoothly.

"I _like_ Chalky," muttered Black.

"It's bloody stupid."

"B—"

AZRAEL.

WHAT? said Death, momentarily distracted by the intra-squad tennis-match-style argument brewing.

AZRAEL, said the leather-clad biker. He tapped the table with one finger. It made a plastic sort of noise. _th th th_

AH. YOU ARE… YES. AZRAEL. ER. Death coughed. ER. PLEASE HELP YOURSELVES TO SOME SANDWICHES.

Red rolled her eyes and uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. There was a choking noise, quickly muffled, from across the table. Death glanced sideways. War was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

ER, I THOUGHT WE COULD START BY… COMPARING TECHNIQUES, DAILY SCHEDULES, THAT SORT OF THING, he offered. I'LL GO FIRST, SHALL I? he said into the silence.

YES, said Azrael.

WELL. Death cleared his nonexistent throat. I GENERALLY BEGIN THE DAY BY GOING OVER THE ACCOUNTS, MAKING SURE EVERYTHING'S IN ORDER, YOU KNOW. THEN I AVOID BREAKFAST BUT POLITELY ACCEPT SOME TEA. THEN I—

"What's wrong with breakfast?" asked Famine, looking offended.

ALBERT.

"Oh. Right. I forgot. You don't _like_ grease," Famine muttered sourly.

ALSO I DO NOT ACTUALLY HAVE A STOMACH, Death pointed out.

AND YET YOU DRINK, said Azrael. The grinding tombstones of his voice sounded somewhat disapproving.

YES. OTHERWISE I WOULD BE RATHER RUDE, YOU SEE.

"How d'you do it, then?" asked Red, looking fascinated.

I AM NOT ENTIRELY SURE.

"Huh." She fiddled with her sword, which was strung at her hip, flexing her fingers around the comfortably well-worn handle. War made a choking sound, his eyes bugging out. Red ignored him, pointedly, and said, "Well, then what?"

I GENERALLY GO THROUGH THE DAY'S SELECTED APPEARANCES, CHECK ON BINKY, POLISH THE SCYTHE, AND SET OFF.

WHAT IS A BINKY? said Azrael.

MY HORSE.

Red coughed. The assorted Horsepersons avoided each other's eyes. From Azrael came a very pointed silence.

"And on the route…?" ventured Red.

USUALLY A FEW HUMANS, THE ODD INVERTEBRATE, PERHAPS A LARGE PLANT, DROWNED KITTENS… THE DAILY ROTA IS RATHER UNPREDICTABLE, OVERALL.

"Kittens?"

I LIKE KITTENS, said Death defensively.

WHY? said Azrael.

PARDON?

YOU DO NOT NEED TO GO ANYWHERE, said Azrael. He sounded nearly confused. IF YOU ARE ANYWHERE, YOU ARE EVERYWHERE. AND YOU _ARE_ EVERYWHERE. SO WHY DO YOU—?

Death shrugged. I LIKE TO TAKE AN INTEREST.

"Really," said Red. "I had no idea."

OH?

"Your granddaughter."

MOTHER ADOPTED. FATHER APPRENTICE. GENERALLY PREDICTABLE. PRODUCED A CHILD. SUSAN, said Death, in a weary voice.

"Huh," said Red.

SHE'S A SCHOOLTEACHER, added Death proudly.

Red and Black sat up keenly. Young minds are tremendously fun to play with. White, on the other hand, merely slouched down even further into his seat, muttering something about "crisp wrappers" with a sleepy smile on his face.

"What's that?" boomed War, whose face was currently about ten shades redder than normal, which was an achievement.

"Oh… I was just saying that… I _love_ children," White oozed. "They're simply _marvelous_. Nappies, to start with… and they simply can't understand the concept of a wastebasket. Constantly washing clothi—"

"_I expect you think you're bloody clever, don't you?_" hissed Pestilence, who was trembling with rage.

"I beg your pardon?"

"_You and your sodding trendy global bloody warming and your Information Age and your vack seens! You think you're better than me, don't you? Admit it! You think I'm ancient history! Your boss should never have—_"

"Mm," murmured White, contemplating the grime under his fingernails. Then he blinked, reached into his head, and pulled out a large and clearly malignant tumor.

Pestilence looked quite smug.

THAT WASN'T NECE— began Death.

He was interrupted by a loud squelching noise, which was the result of a barrel being neatly cracked open over Pestilence's head, like an egg, and the oil inside being dumped unceremoniously onto the Horseman's head.

White tossed the tumor into the corner of the room, where it sputtered and vanished. Pestilence glared; Famine nudged him urgently with a pointy elbow and shook his head, but already White had raised his eyebrows and begun to cough up blood. Black rolled his eyes, reached into White's chest, and extracted a wobbly, semi-congealed puddle of blood. He looked at it for a moment, then ate it, licking his fingers. Famine looked nauseous.

White was gazing calmly at Pestilence. "I know," he said, after a moment. "I shall turn you into a polar bear. You would enjoy that, I'm sure. It would be long and slow. It would hurt. And it would be all people, do you know that? It always is. I merely supervise—as do you." He nodded. "Polar bear." He raised one finger—

—and was grasped firmly by the elbow and steered out of the building.

"What d'you think you're doing, Raven?" Death heard White ask peevishly.

"Getting you out of some trouble."

"Oh, honestly! I could handle him!"

"Probably, but lung blood really doesn't taste as good as one might hope. Anyway, I like this place. Nice, dry and empty. Wanted to get out in the fresh air. Hmm? Chalky?"

There came a yelp. "Don't do that!"

"Don't do what, Chalky?"

"Don't call me Chalky. You can do the other thing again if you like."


End file.
